


I won't do it again.

by siq_art



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Cutting, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Wammy House, Wammy's Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 19:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18999109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siq_art/pseuds/siq_art
Summary: Mello gets into a fight and realizes he likes the way his knuckles sting.Please read the tags before clicking. Thanks. Incomplete for now, probably going to write a few more chapters further in the future.





	I won't do it again.

**Author's Note:**

> **Hey, so I get mildly graphic with the cutting, so take care. I'm not going to tell you not to read it because I'd be a hypocrite if I did that, but if it's going to hurt you, proceed with caution or if this isn't something you want to read feel free to click back.**
> 
> The whole first chapter is pretty much a flashback, I think I'm going to go up to the day before Mello dies, but that's not for sure. I don't know how many chapters there will be. I'm better at just sitting down with a timer, writing, and seeing where I end up. That being said, I don't think this work is complete, so bear with me.

If you asked Mello when he had started, he would tell you it was the day he left Wammy's house. He would tell you that he had been all alone for the first time with no one to stop him, no one to distract from those thoughts that had been swirling in his head for years. He would tell you how he walked through the gates of the orphanage with only a knapsack on his back and cuts on his wrist and how he had never felt better. No one would have questioned it. No one would look at him, fourteen years old, leaving the closest thing he had to a home, and think it impossible for him to have first started then. Looking at Mello, no one would even bat an eye. Of course, no one knew that Mello was lying about it. Or perhaps they did but were too afraid to question him about it. It didn't really matter to him. 

 

He was thirteen the first time it happened; the first time he found escape in pain. A rough storm had been passing over the orphanage, leaving all of the younger kids scared. Everyone over the age of eight was exhausted and irritable from the sound of children crying all day, and Mello, always infamous for his short fuse, had had enough. After a fight with an older boy that grew out of control too quickly, Mello had hit the other child, his fist landing a blow square in his nose. There was a lot of blood, and tears, and adults yelling at him and eventually Mello was sent to his room and told to stay there until someone came to get him, but he didn't care. The moments after he had punched that punk were jumbled in his mind; panic and anger were the only things he could remember. He knew how much trouble he would be in and he was furious that this kid had provoked him enough for him to lose composure like this, but when he looked down at his own shaking hands, clenched into tight fists, the bruising on his knuckles came apparent and he immediately felt calm wash over him. 

 

At the time, he had found it strange how the injuries he had inflicted on himself provided him with such serenity, such control over his emotions. He didn't object as Roger essentially grounded him, making him stay in his room whenever he wasn't in his lessons. Mello could live without playing with the other kids for a few days as long as he could look down at the dark bruise on his hand, or press on the area that had swollen up. Sometimes he'd even go as far as to hit his mattress over and over, trying to preserve that wonderful plum color that had bloomed under his skin. Sometimes the skin around his knuckles would end up red and a little sore, but it never affected the bruise Mello had come to worship.

 

It was almost a week into Mello's punishment when Roger called him into his office to discuss what he had done. The purple tones on his fist had faded to yellow with hints of blue speckled around the old injury and pressing it didn't really do much to calm his mind. He stood in front of Roger's desk, hoping to be as collected in light of Roger's words as his rival Near usually was. 

 

Nothing ever goes Mello's way. 

 

Roger had explained that that night, Mello had broken that kid's nose and that the kid was now afraid to attend lessons or leave his room lest he encounter him. Of course, Mello had argued that the kid had provoked him, that he shouldn't have been so rude or ignorant or just plain inferior. He'd even thought about punching Roger in his stupid old face, but that wouldn't clear him of any sins he had committed. After Mello had finished his yelling, Roger leaned forwards on his hands, with a face that looked so old and tired that Mello believed it would crumble at the slightest touch. He informed Mello that if he was to hurt another child again he wouldn't be allowed to stay at the orphanage and that he would be removed from the competition of becoming L's successor. 

 

Mello was sure Roger could see the emotions that crossed his face; rage, hatred, and fear, followed by a grudging acceptance and feigned apathy.

 

“Fine, whatever.” He said. “I won't do it again.”  
As Mello turned to walk away, he wondered how much of that low, emotionless, broken voice in which he spoke was an act. 

 

Once Mello was back in his room, he sat on his bed, biting back tears from his usually hawk-sharp eyes. It wasn't that he didn't know he'd fucked up. Of course he shouldn't attack other kids, even if they were assholes to him. No, he knew that. He just had trouble controlling himself sometimes. It wasn't his fault! He hadn't punched that kid because he wanted to! It had just happened. Things like that just happen! Mello's thoughts raced as he thought back to that night, though back to the absolute fear he had felt at seeing all that blood and the calm that came from seeing his own wounds. He'd been able to feel it again when he'd pressed the bruise it had left, but that was all but gone and touching it did nothing anymore. Still, Mello wanted to chase that feeling. He needed that feeling. 

 

He had an idea.

 

Ripping open the drawer beside his bed in which he kept his homework, Mello sifted frantically through the papers. His fingers bent and folded the work he was supposed to do and jostled against his pens and pencils for a few seconds as he groped the confines of the wooden drawer but eventually they settled on a small object. Mello withdrew his hand. Clasped in it was a small piece of plastic with a strip of metal through the middle; Mello's pencil sharpener. All that held the blade in place was a tiny screw that was barely inside the plastic. Once he had it freed, he could feel the euphoria of pain once again. 

 

A few minutes later, Mello had figured out a way to get at the blade by smashing the plastic surrounding it. Although it was regrettable that he had destroyed his only pencil sharpener, he didn't think it would be too hard to convince someone to give him another. He could just say he lost it. Clutching the tiny blade in his hand, Mello rolled up his sleeve, fingers trembling slightly. Although desperate to feel the sweet sensation that pain brought once again, Mello hesitated, letting the blade hover above his skin for a few moments before he dragged it across in an experimental swipe. Droplets of blood welled up at his skin, beading equidistant from each other, and Mello felt his whole body light up with a warm, calm glow. He needed to do this again. After the test cut was finished, Mello put a bit more pressure on the blade as he drew it across his forearm. This time, the blood took a little longer to appear at the surface of his skin, and instead of leaving little beads throughout the distance of the cut, the small wound filled with blood and formed a droplet at the edge. Mello watched, mesmerized as the droplet slowly began sliding down his arm, tainting the pale skin red in its wake. He shivered. How could something so harmful leave him feeling so whole?

 

Mello didn't know when he stopped. It could have been minutes or an hour or longer; he was so caught up in the relief the blade brought to him that he didn't mind losing track of time. All he knew was he couldn't see through the blood that coated his arm well enough to find another place to cut. Some of the blood that had dripped down to his elbow had coagulated into gross little blobs and some droplets had broken free from his skin entirely, dripping down onto his black pants. Mello was thankful for their dark color, and for the fact that no blood had gotten on the cream colored carpet of his room's floor. Getting to his feet, he used his undamaged right arm to rummage through his dresser, pulling out a dark knee-high sock that would be alright to mop up the extra blood on his arm. Although it removed most of the blood, it did smear a lot of it around on his wrist, as well as reveal all the damage that he been done. Fuck, there must have been hundreds of little red lines crossing his wrist. Luckily, only a few were still bleeding and even those ones barely did so. He didn't want to have to explain this to anyone. 

 

Rolling down his sleeve, Mello slipped his blade into the jacket of a book on his nightstand. The stinging in his arm kept his brain clear and emotions under control for now. As he threw the blood-soaked sock into his laundry hamper, he speculated that next time he did this it would be good have a washcloth, some water, and perhaps an antiseptic close by. He didn't even stop to think how bad it was that he knew for certain this was something he'd do again.


End file.
